


Not So Human

by Halcy (halcyonweekend)



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: A bit of the Ultraviolence, Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonweekend/pseuds/Halcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a cyborg in such a cold world isn't easy. A man can't even have a drink in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Human

**Author's Note:**

> One of the first fics about Raiden I've written. It was interesting to say the least. Based off of a tumblr user's discussion about Raiden's post-MGS4/MGR life.

“You’re a fucking monster!” A man yelled, thrusting his empty bottle forward, clearly drunk. “You’re sick!” His buddies chimed along with him, yelling and slurring their taunts. They screamed at him, called him an abomination, a mistake, useless, the list went on and on. One even managed to slide out of their seat, stumble forward, and fling a bottle at him. The glass shattered pitifully at a spot on the floor beside him.

Still he nursed his drink.

It wasn’t easy leaving the house these days. Not when silent eyes judged every step he took. Every day he had to return to the public eye was a ritual. Hide everything, ignore everything, make sure seams didn’t show, make sure the bolts were covered enough, never let them look too close.

The black jacket hugged his form, its collar brushing against his cheekbones. Even in this harsh winter, he would normally have no reason to be bundled up so tight in the warmth of the bar, but it was the only protection he had left.

He brushed away what little shards had managed to reach him, the rest of his focus on the glass of diminishing whiskey. He raised his head to look at the bartender and ask for another drink, but the look of disgust he saw shied him away from doing so.

There was still a commotion behind him, voices coming together unintelligible but angry. He caught bits of words, none of them pleasant. It was like this everywhere he went. Soon, there wouldn’t be a place in the city that would take him.

"Go drown yourself you wired-up freak!" The voices were getting closer. "I’m gonna rip that fake skin right off of ya!" He knew they were afraid. "No one’s gonna miss a piece of junk like you!" Liquid courage flooded their veins tonight.

Raiden felt the hand reach out before its fingers even laced tightly through his hair. The man grabbed and pulled his head down to face him. “I knew it was fake…” He rasped, the stench of cheap booze flooding his senses. He glanced over at the bartender, but he just glared in return. There’d be no good Samaritans here.

The other men surrounded him, hands being placed around his arms, tearing him from his stool. The man with his hair in his hands didn’t relent, but rather tightened his grip and pulled. They continued to bark insults, dragging him towards the back. Normally he would let them toss (or more accurately /try to toss/) him out of the bar, but tonight went a bit differently.

His body stiffened, and his legs moved to get him in a more comfortable standing position. Were he anywhere else, he would have torn himself from their relatively weak grip and went back home, but any retaliation would land him in jail, or even worse. He wasn’t a person in their eyes, just a weapon.

One of the men managed to notice and gave him a kick to the chest, knocking him back into their hold.

"Looks like we’ll have to teach this sack of scrap here that we don’t take too well to their kind…" The men guffawed as the man out of Raiden’s view lead them outside.

He lands face first into a pile of trash, black bags open and filled with rotting meat, dishes, and cans from meals past. Everything in the back alley had a light dusting of snow, which in no way soothed him as he swallowed sour air. He moved to push himself up and away, but a few more kicks his sides kept him down.

He pined for his combat body, with its armor and fibers and the many sheaths connected to it. The civilian model did its job for the day-to-day, but it brought him closer to their level.

"Goddamn cyborg scum…!" He was flipped around, head knocking on the painted brick behind him. One of the men pounced on top of him. A fist swung, knocking his teeth together painfully. Another fist came, then another.

Flesh and bone pounded on fibers and carbons, and he felt every sharp unyielding hit. Other men came around, each taking a shot at the unflinching cyborg.

Fingers grasped at the seam that ran across his face, nails dug into the border where human flesh met synthetics. Raiden wanted to push him off, he wanted to scream for help, he wanted to turn each one of them into confetti. He managed to get his hands up, but it was all for naught.

Where the seam would just look off to onlookers, bloody hands crafted a bladeless Chelsea smile. Feet and unknown weapons worked on breaking legs and bruising whatever remained. The savage pressed on top of him favored the only human eye left, pummeling it again and again, breaking blood vessels, bruising and making him bleed further.

"Help…" His voice box rasped. "Help me…!" He repeated the message again and again, his voice growing louder and more unclear. Synthetic blood leaked wherever nails broke skin and would choke him.

Sirens blared behind them, and even the unrelenting animal above him darted away with the rest of his group.

As the chilled air and even colder snow slipped into his wound, Raiden silently begged for the night’s end.


End file.
